


Fixable Mistakes

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Parent!lock, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post Season 4 Fix-It, Post Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9354824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: Every now and again, in moments like these, he considers leaving them here and removing himself, as he found himself doing after Sherlock died.It's these 2 am times when he can't help but wonder why, even after those years, he can't let go of leaving, but finds comfort in the concept of leaving here. It chews on him, like a parasite to his neck, slowly sucking his consciousness away, leaving him to clutter himself with thoughts that do not relate to who he is or where he is.---Six months after what John recalls as "Sherrinford", he finds himself unable to cope with living alone. He moves back into 221b with Rosie, resulting in him and Sherlock slowly falling back into a semi-domestic lifestyle. After a while, though, both men find themselves being closer than they ever could be before.





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> A fix-it I started (and wrote quickly within hours) fueled purely on my aggression towards Moffat and Gatiss. I added a few things and twisted a few things to make more sense, and will continue to do that because they've left so many things open to interpretation, so this should hopefully help. Will update whenever possible xx

He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart racing in his chest and flashes of red still scarring his vision.

  John Watson cannot escape Sherrinford. No matter what happens, no matter how he tries, he's still on the grey island with grey people in grey hats, and his heart still aches with that he had seen and what he couldn't do.

  2:32. Not far from yesterday's awakening, and probably will be around the same tomorrow. He won't go to a therapist now. Not this time, at least. As he joked to himself, "What if Sherlock has another sister I'm missing? Cousin?" It's just not an option.

  With a groggy head and sleepy eyes, he pulls himself out of his covers and lets out a soft groan, letting his body ache, for at least he feels something. He misses this--the illusion that he has purpose, or that he exists beyond a constant cycle of painful dreams and waking to an empty bed. He still blames himself, knowing he couldn't do anything. He blames himself for blaming Sherlock. He blames himself for ever letting this happen. He should have known, he should have listened to every damn sign thrown at him. Mary wasn't safe, and neither was her lifestyle, and of course, once a killer always a killer. He sat and listened to her excuses, her lies, and he slowly accepted them, and what happened in the end? She got herself shot, and Sherlock was high enough to blame himself.

  John, of course, was only aware of this after a brief conversation with Lestrade. Sherlock was being a cock, as he always does, and tore down Vivian Norbury. In result, she turned the gun back to Mary to shock him. Sherlock wasn't truly to blame, he only stalled, and, for some reason, he let John believe.

  Believing made it harder.

  Believing made him drink. Believing made him switch therapists. Believing didn't let him let go, and now here he is, still in this damn flat with Mary's clothes in her closet and the decaying flowers from apologetic colleagues cluttering the table because he can't let go. Maybe it was guilt, for be was sure he never truly loved her, and she deserved better than to die like that. Could be a lot of things, but physically, he cannot bare to remove them.

  Every now and again, in moments like these, he considers leaving them here and removing himself, as he found himself doing after Sherlock died. 

  It's these 2 am times when he can't help but wonder why, even after those years, he can't let go of leaving, but finds comfort in the concept of leaving here. It chews on him, like a parasite to his neck, slowly sucking his consciousness away, leaving him to clutter himself with thoughts that do not relate to who he is or where he is.

  As he pull himself up, his 2 am daze follows him to the kitchen, continuing to gnaw away at his mind, filling it with odd images that scrambled through his dream. They pour into his coffee, which he sips mindlessly to the laugh tracks of old reruns on the telly. He could never understand why, but something about them comfort him. They bring him a feeling of warmth, and bring him back to when he and Sherlock would return late from a case...

  Stop. Those days are over. To dwell on the past is not changing what is to become. Even if he could go back, be part of Sherlock's life again, is it even assured that he would want him back? Sherlock, obviously, has other people in his life that fulfill him in ways that John couldn't. To Sherlock, he's probably no more than a sidekick, and he could have plenty of those.

  He gets up after a while, leaving a light on in the living room as he sets the mug in the sink on top of the forming stack three days in the making. Slowly, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floor, he goes into Rosie's room to check on her. Inside, the facade of the normality of their lives is plastered all over the walls in happy designs. It's almost a joke to him, as the now 4 am feeling fills the room. Looking over her, he swallows at the lump in his throat. Guilt. That's all there is for bringing her into this world. She hasn't got a mother, and he's barely a father. Sometimes, he questions how he can be, in fact. He's been questioning since he knew. He decided not to question it, at the wedding, but he could never recall how or when it happened, and judging by the time she would have gotten pregnant, he was working overtime to save the money for the wedding. Sex, frankly, wasn't happening much, but... maybe he was just over thinking it, like Mary told him he was over thinking her friend... David, was it? Who knows. He only met him twice--once at the wedding, and once when she talked him into getting a drink with him. A shit drink at a shit bar.

  He gently sets his palm against her hair and strokes it softly, still unable to swallow away what's stopping him from breathing. At times like this, he feels as though this can't be real. He can't be living in a reality like this, this mundane life so far from what he once did. He can't have a child all alone. He can't trust himself with a child all alone--he was barely even raised right, so how can he pack lunches in the morning and work to keep somebody else alive when he can barely trust himself on nights like this?

  Softly, his hand strokes her hair softly once more before leaning down, kissing her forehead then leaving her room, keeping the door open a crack.

 Back in his bed, he lays and stares at the ceiling, wondering what he's doing with this life, and how different it could be--it should be. It keeps him up, staring into nothing for hours until he gets a text. It's daybreak when his phone pings a lonely message. Only one person would be up.

 

_Awake? SH_

 

  A slight smile creeps across his face.

 

_Case this early?_

 

 Within seconds, he get a wordless reply of three pictures, all of the same victim. He's a young man, early thirties, and he's got knife slashes across his body, but no signs of fighting back. After a moment, he gets another text.

 

_Any ideas? SH_

 

_It was a bad night for somebody_

 

_Besides that. SH_

 

_Possibly a passion crime? A gang-passion crime? London's own remake of West Side Story?_

 

_No. He was found in an office. He was a lawyer, and according to his boss, was working late on a case. SH_

 

_Do lawyers have gangs?_

 

_Are you willing to be serious, John? SH_

 

_If I have more information_

 

_Too much to text, not enough to phone over. SH_

 

_I'll be over soon, then._

 

  With that, he stands and dresses properly, his heart beating with the anticipation of a case. Sounds like an interesting one, and it's always those that give him something to distract himself with long enough. His eager hands pull on his coat, and he quietly tiptoes back into Rosie's room. He prepares everything to bring her, trying his best to put her into her carrier without waking her. Of course, it was unsuccessful, and he had to give her her pacifier to calm her long enough.

  After a short ride, he arrives to 221b and lets himself in, careful not to wake Mrs. Hudson as he makes his way up the new stairs, no longer making the comforting groans under the weight of whoever comes upstairs.

  Standing is Sherlock, the case spread out on the coffee table and wall as he stares at it, his eyes going up and down and seemingly trying to connect the dots.

  "What is this?" John asks quietly as he sets Rosie and the carrier on the couch, joining him.

  "In the past thirty minutes, there was another. Lestrade came up with it." He waves to the wall, his eyes down to the coffee table. "Same wounds, same places. Not just similar places--same places."

  John shoots him a curious look, but it's left unacknowledged as Sherlock whisks off to the kitchen.

  "Tea?" Sherlock calls out, eager to impress.

  John shrugs and quickly answers "Sure" as he continues looking over the case. "Couldn't it just be coincidence? If using the same hand, your movements could be similar..."

  "Not unless it was planned."

  "Suicide then?"

  Sherlock steps into the room and quickly goes over to examine them. "But why?"

  "Suicide isn't always that easy, Sherlock

  "No, but it was such a random time. If you wanted to die,  _really_ wanted to die, why would you die in your workplace?"

  John shrugs, his eyes avoiding Sherlock as he picks up one of the pictures, plucking a similar angled one from the other case off the wall. "Had to have been standing in the same way, though. And there's no signs of fighting back. It seriously could have been-"

  "Why are you focusing on suicide?" Sherlock interjects, his eyes shifting to look at the other man. His gaze is intense, as if John's a puzzle to solve.

  "Just seems like it's a good possibility."

  Sherlock shifts his weight a little, looking over him for a split second. He takes a moment, adjusting his voice to a softer tone. "You haven't been sleeping, at least not well. You only had coffee this morning, but didn't bother milk even. You just drank it black, suggesting you either didn't have it or you didn't want the effort that went into it. Your clothes were put on sloppily, as you didn't flatten your wrinkles after you tucked in your shirt and didn't take the moment to tie your shoelaces, and your hair is combed quickly, causing it to become all static. Your ring has been handled, but not seemingly removed. You've been twisting it nervously around your finger. She's been on your mind, hasn't she?" He hesitantly steps closer with his last words, fearing the possible rejection, but taking the risk anyway. "You don't have to live alone in that house. You know that-"

  "Stop," he cuts him off, his eyes to the ground.

  Sherlock stops, steadily drawing in a breath as he thinks. "The room upstairs is always open," he whispers after a moment of silence.

  After a beat, John's eyes shift up, looking at Sherlock for a minute and nodding slightly. "Thank you," he breathes.


	2. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the first night back, his nightmares subsided as exhaustion kicked in and let him rest, but it was a brief period of relaxation before the swung back. It was all so realistic, so vivid that it attached to him and stayed chained to him like an iron ball, scrapping up his life behind him. Somehow, some nights it seemed to pick up from where his dreams left, cascading a drowning dream of Sherlock not wanting him back and denying him comfort. In his dreams, Sherlock seemed to never care for him and ignored him. It seemed odd, since as soon as he would wake from his few hour slumber, he would go down to the kitchen for coffee and see Sherlock still awake, wandering around the flat doing whatever he was caught on at the moment. He would smile, help him with the case or give him a suggestion for one of his blog posts, and Sherlock would give him his utmost attention, sometimes even stopping what he was doing to watch telly with him. One night, he seemed more curious than others.

  Slowly, but surely, John Watson sunk back into 221b. Like a rock in a lake, it doesn't always fit right in at first. Once the rock is dropped in, the residue slowly settles back its surface and the waters are calm, and over time, moss grows up and around, making the rocks fit in comfortably.

  At first, John was hesitant of everything. Even when moving the boxes back in, he wasn't sure of where he could and couldn't put things. Quiet exchanges could be heard as Sherlock helped him unpack, John eventually picking something out of a box, asking if he could put it somewhere downstairs and being met with a quiet "Of course, John." He got his bed set up and Rosie's crib in the corner, deciding that they'll figure out what needs to be done when the time comes. Mrs. Hudson constantly suggests 221c, but Sherlock huffed and went off over the mold and mildew, so he respectfully declined.

  Even when it came to everyday life, he still didn't fully adjust at first. He would ask before using anything in the kitchen, or use his own blankets in the living room, and made sure Rosie wouldn't get into Sherlock's way. He feared that life as it used to be in 221b would not be as it was before. Of course, he was wrong. He could easily find fingers in the containers he kept leftovers in, and he could find bullet holes in the water bill, and he even found the slipper Sherlock keeps his cigarettes in. Life was unchanged, but sadly it was unchanged in ways besides 221b as well.

  On the first night back, his nightmares subsided as exhaustion kicked in and let him rest, but it was a brief period of relaxation before the swung back. It was all so realistic, so vivid that it attached to him and stayed chained to him like an iron ball, scrapping up his life behind him. Somehow, some nights it seemed to pick up from where his dreams left, cascading a drowning dream of Sherlock not wanting him back and denying him comfort. In his dreams, Sherlock seemed to never care for him and ignored him. It seemed odd, since as soon as he would wake from his few hour slumber, he would go down to the kitchen for coffee and see Sherlock still awake, wandering around the flat doing whatever he was caught on at the moment. He would smile, help him with the case or give him a suggestion for one of his blog posts, and Sherlock would give him his utmost attention, sometimes even stopping what he was doing to watch telly with him. One night, he seemed more curious than others.

  It was weeks in, maybe months, but John's reality was warped and mushed, days and weeks no longer having difference. He had a particularly bad dream about the well, nearly drowning again. He jolted awake, heart racing in his chest and vision spinning. It was all a dream. Just a dream. Pulling himself up and away from his bed, he pulled on a jumper over top his shirt, shivering slightly as he made his way down the creaking stairs. Sherlock was sitting at the table, analyzing something on a slide when he heard him.

  "What was tonight's about?" Sherlock questioned calmly, his pen scratching against his notebook as he jots down notes.

  "The well, again."

  Sherlock gives a slight nod, his eyes following John as the smaller man turned on the kettle, still in a daze. "Still can't get out?"

  John hesitates, his eyes on the counter top for a second before glancing up to grab two mugs. "No, no I can't."

  The air is still for a moment, Sherlock's eyes resting on John. He waits, watching him make them both coffee before taking the seat across from him. He nods graciously, pushing his microscope aside so he can speak to John properly. "They've told you several times, John. It's just your dream. It can't hurt you--the well. It never can and it never did."

  With a soft puff of breath, John's eyes shoot down into his coffee cup. "It felt so real-"

  "It never was. The doctors and psychiatrists have told you this, John. Have you been taking your medicine?"

  He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "I don't like what it does to me," he breathes.

  Sherlock shifts his weight carefully, a mix of pity and guilt swirling inside of him. "It was all a dream, John. You were shot, and you were out for a while, remember? It was never real. You've been to my parent's house, you know that Redbeard was real, you know that Mrs Hudson redid the flat after I shot it up, you know that I would never  _ever_ ignore 'Vatican cameos'. It was all while you were in the coma. Eurus was hanged after we found you and it was uncovered to Mycroft how many others were dead. I was there. I saw it, and I always knew she was a part of my family. You've seen the family pictures in my parent's house, John..."

  "You're not making it any better."

  Stale silence stops them both, Sherlock's eyes on John's as John's are down at his mug again. It hurt, but it was true.

  "I want you to go to your psychiatrist again, John. They'll prescribe new pills."

  John's head turns away towards the living room, looking at the rug and the table and his chair. Sherlock is right. Dammit, he's always right. He's goddamn Sherlock Holmes, and everything he says is right, even if he's wrong.

  The new silence lasts a while, slowly shifting into a comfortable quiet. Sherlock sips his coffee, John looks back at his and take a slow sip. The tap in the kitchen drips slowly, and the light fixture above flickers once, as it usually does. Eventually, Sherlock stands to clean his mug and carefully takes John's as well, and the new sound of clinking porcelain fills the quiet, accompanied by the rushing water. Their conversation washes down the drain along with the suds, a deep breath being released by John as he runs his hands through his hair. He didn't expect to feel Sherlock's hands against him, but a moment later the detective's palms rested carefully upon John's shoulders, his fingers delicately placed down against his collar. It's small, but comforting.

  "How about a film? Or whatever's on any program?" Sherlock suggests softly, reading John's response to his touch.

  "A film might help," he whispers back.

  Sherlock nods, his hands leaving him and pulling his chair back for him, the floor screeching underneath. They both make their way to the kitchen, taking a seat on the couch. Sherlock sets up the telly on the coffee table, bringing a blanket for both of them after turning off the lights beside the one sitting beside them. He finds a film they both agree on, and turns it on.

  After an hour or so, John slips back asleep, his head resting back and his arms holding his blanket close. Later into the morning, he wakes up to his stomach growling and daylight filtering in through the curtains. He's in a different position than he fell asleep in, now laying down with a pillow under his head and two blankets over top of him. There's a soft clamor in the kitchen, voices quieting muttering between each other.

  Slowly, John makes his way over as he rubs his back, a smile sneaking onto his face as he sees what's happening. Sherlock's got Rosie in her highchair, and Mrs Hudson is dotting on him over how he's feeding her.

  "Let her try herself, Sherlock."

  "She'll make an awful mess of herself."

  "I let you make a mess of yourself, why not let her?"

  John clears his throat and their heads shoot up, Mrs Hudson tutting softly. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? I heard you two up past god knows how late..."

  "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. And so is Rosie. You can go back downstairs, alright?"

  She sighs, trying to put up and argument, but John talks her into it after a moment, leaving them alone in silence.

  John watches them, checking what they have in the fridge. "Sherlock..."

  "Mm?"

  "I'll make an appointment today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (gay gay gay gay gay.... just an analysis)


	3. Little Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflections in what happens within the lives of these men always portrays themselves in ways neither of them could expect. This, of course, is why when Rosie took her first steps, their lives were soon followed by their own little steps.

  In 221b, things don't usually happen without a mirror of some sort. A man who sees himself as damaged in some way seeks out a flatmate? So does another, ending up at 221b. A bomb explodes across the street and sends a rippling affect? One of the men's hopeful relationships is burnt out, sending ripples in his later relationships. Neither of these continuous ripples stop until Sherlock toppled off of Bart's. Then, Moriarty's ripples seemed to falter, and so did John's instability in relationships. Yet, Sherlock isn't happy at 221b alone? John's marriage is already starting to crumble, and he's not coping well with Sherlock in his life. Sherlock is back on drugs? John is hallucinating again. Reflections in what happens within the lives of these men always portrays themselves in ways neither of them could expect. This, of course, is why when Rosie took her first steps, their lives were soon followed by their own little steps.

  It was a rainy morning, as many mornings are, and it was as normal as it could be between the walls of the flat. Sherlock was playing violin for John and Rosie as John fixed them all breakfast and Rosie babbled to her toys. Soft drops of rain pattered against the windows, and soft and warm lights from their lamps felt dreamy when compared to the grey skies. It was, as some consider it, incredibly domestic. They slid into the mold of a family so perfectly, if one could only view them in that moment. Yet, sadly, there were unspoken words between them; hidden truths that couldn't be spat out. It was cloaked by the domesticity of their home life.

  Once John called over that it was ready, Sherlock automatically set his violin in the open case, resting the bow beside it before scooping Rosie up in his arms, planting a gentle kiss onto her curls as he took his usual seat. He settled her into her highchair with only quiet words to her of "Hold still, please" and "Nono, don't chew on your bib." A plate was set in front of her and Sherlock wordlessly, as well as a mug in front of Sherlock. He and John exchange wordless smiles before starting to eat. They dare not to look at each other in fear that their gaze will last too long. Sherlock feared John would know how he feels, and John feared what he felt for him. The thick air as they ate in silence felt thicker than putty, and their longings chained to them like shackles.

  Eventually the painful routine ended; Sherlock rose to wash the dishes and John took Rosie back into the living room to work on a case as he watched her play. The cases were one of the things that returned with John's return to 221b. Regularly, cases returned to his blog, as well as an occasional prideful update on Rosie, which Sherlock's comments are surprisingly positive on. It would be times like those that John allowed himself to feel happy, but it's moments like these that feel like the pressure of an elephant sitting on his chest. It's the wondering whether or not he and Sherlock could ever love each other as he wishes they could, or if they could ever even speak about how they feel.

  John's train of thought gets disrupted by something bumping into his leg. It's Rosie, crawling towards him. She grabs onto his pant leg, babbling and trying to hoist herself up to stand. A smile spreads across John's face as he offers his hand, letting her grab onto his finger as she gets up on her feet. "Sherlock, get a camera."

  Within seconds, Sherlock is standing by his chair with his cell. "Do you think it's going to happen?"

  "I'm not sure," he says, a little too late, though, for Rosie is already trying to take a wobbly step. Sherlock quickly starts a video, getting down a few feet in front of her and offering his free hand.

  "Come here, Rosie. Come on. Come over here, darling," he whispers, a bright smile on his face as he watches her.

  Shakily, Rosie steps down a foot, followed by her other. Slowly, she starts walking forward as she continues to hold onto John's finger. She lets go after a few steps, and there's clear panic on her face. She looks at Sherlock, looking as if she'll burst into tears and flop down any second, but Sherlock reaches out his arm and she wobbly starts to step again, managing to grab Sherlock's finger after a few steps as she continues forward into his arms. Sherlock, unexpectedly, starts laughing, resting his phone on the floor and pulling Rosie close into his arms, kissing his hair as he showers her with compliments. "You did so good! Good job!" He whispers as John watches in awe. A grin is spread across his face, but for two reasons. Of course, his daughter walking, but... also Sherlock and her. It's almost as if Sherlock's her other parent. As if they weren't just silently avoiding everything barely a half an hour ago. As if it were a normal life.

  Yet, of course John's train of thought is interrupted by Sherlock plopping Rosie onto John's lap before spinning off to do something on his phone.

  "What are you-?"

  "Making sure everybody knows that Rosie took her first steps today."

  A soft chuckle comes from John as he holds Rosie in one arm, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair. "You're going to be that type of mum, aren't you?"

  Sherlock makes a face, watching John incredulously. "Mum?!"

  "Yes, mum." He grins.

  Sherlock scoffs, taking a seat. "If I were to be anybody, I would not assume the stereotypical 'mum' trait-"

  "Am I the mum then?" John teases impishly, causing Sherlock to blink for a moment and drop his chin slightly.

  "I... I meant..." He blinks, mentally trying to reword what he meant. "I had meant that we would  _both_ be her father, rather than forcibly imposing the tradition parental mother-father roles..." he trails off, not entirely sure if he should finish what he's thinking. He wants to be Rosie's father as well. As in two fathers. As in he's nearly appalled by the idea that his life would fall into an inherently heterosexual stereotype.

  John takes a moment to process what he's saying, shifting Rosie to his other arm. "Are you suggesting that we co-parent her as both her dads?"

  Sherlock's breath catches slightly. "Yes," he forces plainly.

  John takes a moment to react, but after what seems like hours he nods, standing carefully with Rosie against his chest. "I... I suppose that is proper, seeing as you're the closest thing she has to parent, besides me."

  Relaxation floods over Sherlock, but he simply nods his head just slightly. "Thank you," he finds himself whispering in response, his eyes just falling on Rosie as he avoids eye contact in fears it may break him. How does he respond to this? Is thank you the proper response to your best friend telling you that you're allowed to be his child's other parent? Is the situation so atypical that there is no proper response, only the customary 'thank you'? People don't come in guides, as to when to say yes or no. What is taught and learned doesn't always prepare people for situations like these, where you're in love with your best friend, but stuck having to accept that it's possible you'll only ever be his best friend, and now a co-parent to his child. Intimacy may increase, but unless now is the moment to speak out, will he ever truly be able to express how he feels?

  As Sherlock gets lost, John leaves him to think as he cleans up her toys and brings her down to Mrs. Hudson as he always does at 11:30 as he and Sherlock work on a case, or the occasional multiple cases of the afternoon. But this time, when he returns, Sherlock is still in his seemingly hypnotic state. 

  A squeak of the wood and the clearing of John's throat snaps him out of it. "Are you okay?"

  "Hm? Oh. Yes. Fine." In a flurry, he's back at his desk and on his laptop, hurrying to get back to work. Not working means they'll have a talk, and that's best to be avoided now.

  And, as he had predicted, getting to work had avoided a conversation John's subconscious urged him to have. The conversation nearly everybody dreads; a conversation about their feelings. A serious discussion is rarely ever something people thrive off of, and regularly avoided by some, but John's chest aches with the cravings of it. He just wants them to truly discuss what is happening, and why are they now avoiding it, but avoiding it seems to be what they do best with distractions of cases and tea kettles boiling and little steps against the carpeted floor that serve as everyday distractions from what they want most. Avoiding conversation seems to be what they do best.

  As the daily distraction continues for hours with Sherlock prattling on about a case before working to solve it, thoughts swim around John's head for conversations they need to have. Some, of course, are more pressing than others, but some should just be stated. It takes hours for him to work them out, but as Sherlock types away for research on a client, John finally forces out his words.

  "I'm not sure how much longer we can stay at 221b," he states, his eyes on Sherlock carefully as the other man raises his head to look back.

  "What do you mean?" he responds, an odd nervous tone in his voice, as if anxiety arises with the concept of abandoning the flat.

  "I mean... two bedrooms and three of us. I'm more than happy to have Rosie's crib in my room, but she's growing up. She turns 10 months in two weeks. I'm afraid we'll have grown out of it in no time."

  Silence. Then Sherlock's voice. "Why don't you stay in my bedroom?"

  John snorts. "Where will you sleep then?" More silence.  _Oh._ "Are you suggesting..?"

  "Yes."

  John takes a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows down nothing but his own feelings. "Is that not-"

  "I understand it is deemed romantic, but we've shared a bed in the past, John, if you seem to have forgotten. While I understand those were very temporary when they occurred, it only seems logical that we stay where we are and make do with what we have." Together.

  The air between them is starched stiff, neither of them breathing right as they watch each others' faces. What a terrible way to suffer--in the silence of the unspoken.

  John breaks the silence as he looks down, pressing his lips together. "We'll try it tomorrow and I'll make my mind up, yeah?" he whispers.

  Sherlock simply nods, his eyes not leaving John's face.

  "Good--no. No. Fine. Yes. Fine."

  "John?"

  "Yes?"

  "Is the hesitation because I snore?" Sherlock jokes quietly, frankly just wanting to see John smile. He relaxes the moment John's face cracks into a beautiful, relieving smile.

  "Maybe a little."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA i apologize for taking so long to update--finals week just ended and my mental health has come crashing down on top of me  
> i'm just about to dive back into school on tuesday (it is currently sunday evening, january 29th, our boy's anniversary :>)  
> i hope everybody has a safe and happy day and however long until i update bc i'm a little bit of a butt and i'm going to be busy and probably not mentally better for a while, so it may take another week  
> ciao <3  
> \- anï


	4. Bed Sheets and Cold Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shift, a click, and another shift, and then they were in darkness together, alone, and in bed. The moonlight feeding in through the window cast shadows onto them, but John's mind urged his body to get closer to Sherlock; to learn how each and every shadow casts itself onto Sherlock's lengthy body and how the pale light makes his ridiculously brilliant eyes look without the distractions of everything else, but he couldn't bring himself to move anything but his head to face him. Sherlock's back is covered by some cotton shirt. It's probably Egyptian cotton, too, that prick. He can't help but want to touch him so desperately, craving the feeling of taking off Sherlock's clothing piece by piece before undoing him physically to bring him to a state he's never seen in him before. He just wants him, but the inches of bed between them feels like a million. But, eventually his heavy eyes close to let him sleep, and he misses his opportunity to finally close the gap.

 

  The first night felt the hardest, but the following nights slowly melted into uncharted territory. Sharing a bed wasn't anything new, as Sherlock had convinced John, but there was still a hesitation in John's willingness to sleep so close to Sherlock regularly. Whenever they had done it in the past for a case in a cramped hotel, Sherlock barely slept anyway, so he never fully "shared a bed" in the sense that both parties were asleep. So, of course it raised a question: what would sharing a bed imply? Are there boundaries? Specifics of when Sherlock wakes up or goes to bed? Is there a routine? Questions upon questions piled up, yet when actually in the situation where they were, in fact, preparing for that night, the only question exchanged verbally was "Which side do you sleep on?"

  The night was calm and quiet, such as most other nights have been as of recent. Rosie was in bed by 9 and Sherlock was working on an experiment at the kitchen table until nearly 11 when John turned off the telly and tapped his shoulder with his fingertips. "I'm ready when you are," he whispered. Such selective words suggested romance, but there were unfulfilled fantasies in place of the lust.

  Sherlock cleaned what would be dangerous if left unattended and left the rest of his experiment carelessly to follow John into his bedroom. John had already set up a baby monitor beside his water and pills for the morning on his agreed side, and Sherlock's side just had his digital clock and lamp. A bittersweet scene laid in front of them. One hand could hold the new beginnings and a blossoming, comfortable intimacy between them. On the other hand, it holds stale longing and uncomfortable silences filled with lost conversations.

  With the latter filling his mind, Sherlock went to his dresser and fetched his pajamas. "I can change in the bathroom," he says flatly, turning to leave as John shifts.

  "I don't mind, Sherlock," he responds quietly, a hand reaching out to grab his arm. "I'm a doctor, for crying out loud. The human body doesn't alarm me in the slightest."

  Sherlock jerks his arm away, turning his face away from John's. "I have to use the loo anyway," he murmurs coldly before practically stomping into the bathroom and leaving John alone,

  Once he returns, John is already tucked into his side with a book in hand. Neither of them speak as Sherlock joins him and switches off his light, his back to John with eyelids pressed tight. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat. Try to sleep without much thought. They're friends--best friends. Nothing more than conversations about the past and a hopeful future of old films and sitting too close for friends, but not close enough. It's an emotional wet dream just to be in this bed with each other, and it holds the same satisfaction of one. If only they could get closer. Hands closer. Feet closer. Something touching would be better than the gap between them.

  Sherlock found himself counting the moments between when he closed his eyes and when John would finish reading. It took roughly 25 minutes before John let out a squeak of a yawn, the sound of a page being bent, then the closing of the pages. Sherlock always found it oddly charming how delicate the other man was to books while handling them, yet carelessly bent the pages to mark his spot. He found it especially charming when he would find articles he printed lying around the flat with little doggy ears from John, and if John would do it before he moved back in, Sherlock would secretly save the ones he knew that John read to impress him with. John may fancy himself a romantic, but Sherlock could write a never-ending scientific journal on his addiction to his own love for his blogger. Of course, it would never end simply due to moments like these where he could observe John so closely and just appreciate his unique mannerisms.

  A shift, a click, and another shift, and then they were in darkness together, alone, and in bed. The moonlight feeding in through the window cast shadows onto them, but John's mind urged his body to get closer to Sherlock; to learn how each and every shadow casts itself onto Sherlock's lengthy body and how the pale light makes his ridiculously brilliant eyes look without the distractions of everything else, but he couldn't bring himself to move anything but his head to face him. Sherlock's back is covered by some cotton shirt. It's probably Egyptian cotton, too, that prick. He can't help but want to touch him so desperately, craving the feeling of taking off Sherlock's clothing piece by piece before undoing him physically to bring him to a state he's never seen in him before. He just wants him, but the inches of bed between them feels like a million. But, eventually his heavy eyes close to let him sleep, and he misses his opportunity to finally close the gap.

  But Sherlock? Sherlock barely slept. He would fall asleep, and nearly a half an hour later he would wake again, only to back asleep a little while later, then to be woken up by the sound of Rosie in the monitor. Quickly, he would go comfort her before John even had a chance to wake. He held her close and sang to her, rubbing her back just as she likes it as she dozed back off. Softly, he kissed her hair before laying her back down and joining John again, this time facing him. He's so beautiful. The perfect man. His perfect man. But if only he could express it. All he could do was rest his hand on the sheets between them, watching John breathe as he slowly matched his own while falling asleep.

  Sherlock woke roughly a half an hour before John, as usual, and took his morning shower, got Rosie from her room and brought her down for breakfast.

  By the time John woke, a mug of steaming tea was already sitting on his nightstand.

 

   _Just how you like it -SH_

 

  Showoff-y? Or just sweet? Or are they the same thing for Sherlock?

  After that, the day wasn't much different than the days before. They simply existed as they always do, and all the unsaid words remained choked down, and the normality of everyday got swallowed down like dry swallowing a pill; discomforting, nauseating, and the wrong way to approach the situation.

  That next evening, though, the changes started. Subtle, at first. Sherlock still rushed to change in the other room, and John still let Sherlock face away from him before he flicked off his light as well, but this time, he cleared his throat.

  "Are you still awake?" John croaked quietly, his voice dulled and weakened by tiredness and from being silenced for so long.

  "I am now," the other voice breathed softly. He was never asleep in the first place. "Why do you ask?"  


  "I just... want to know if I'm bothering you."

  "You never bother me, John."

  Silence. A few beats. Heartbeats. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. It increases a little for John. What does it mean?

  "Say it again," John says clearly.

  "You never bother me, John," Sherlock whispers.

  His heart is racing in his chest, aching to know more. "Just making sure, that's all," he manages, his head turned towards the detective.

  A smile cracks onto Sherlock's face, his eyes remaining shut. "Goodnight, John."

  Pause. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

  Silence. Before long, the night drifts back into day, and John wakes up to an empty bed and a cup of tea once more.

  Same cycle. Day in, day out. They inch closer in bed each night, or their conversation will drift into that day's case or something they'd read in the news. John waits for Sherlock to come back from the bathroom. Sherlock turns to face John. Day after day after day, they grow more comfortable with their bed mate, but less confident in themselves. Sherlock doesn't want to ruin in. John doesn't want to scare Sherlock away. A give and take. A push and pull. The sensitive cracks in their friendship corrode away, crumbling to reveal the pulsing heart underneath. "I want more," both men find themselves whispering into the mirror at one point while alone. They don't want it to end, but they can't seem to let it begin. It would take something with more power than they have between themselves to force them closer.

  Neither of them could expect the thing to bring them closer was smaller than half of either of them.

  It took a night of Rosie fussing without an end to pull them together.

  A night where nothing would stop her. A bottle? No. Definitely not a lullaby. And she wasn't unclean either. She just didn't want to stop. Both of them took turns rocking her, singing to her, bouncing her, but nothing. So, of course, when Sherlock suggested they have her sleep in bed with them, John's exhausted mind went "why not?"  


  The logistics were haywire. At three in the morning, neither Sherlock nor John could think clearly. Rosie's wails didn't seem to help either of them, either. They just wanted sleep. Do they both lay on their side and put her between them? No. It doesn't work. Trying to have their faces that close scared themselves too much that both shook their heads while laying like so almost immediately. Taking turns laying with Rosie on their chests was pointless too. Having to move her would only wake her. After maybe six or seven different positions, John looked Sherlock in the eyes. "Shut up," he whispered in advance before having him lay back beside him, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and having him do the same, Sherlock's arm slipping under John's lower back, which had them pressing their sides together and leaving Rosie to cuddle in the middle. Then, and only then, would she fall asleep.

  Neither of them spoke. God, they ached to, but that was something for the morning. Right then and there, they passed out for the night and let their boundaries crumble and left like an open wound for the next day's coherent thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg oml ohhh mygod okay im so soso soso sorry this took so long so much has ahppaned and I AM SHIT AAAAAAA I AM SORR ik this is kinda shitty and i feel like this is a horribly chapter please accept this shit as a valid chapter i apologize omg i know it's rushed and bad i am so sorry omg


	5. Beautiful Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But John just nods again in a response, no words even escaping as he stands and casts his gaze away, going into the kitchen and letting Sherlock follow. Nobody really speaks for a few minutes; the only sounds that come from the kitchen are the clinks of mugs and the switch to the kettle. The unfair concert of hidden fears of what to say and how to say it, as if they misstep and mutter the wrong words, the other will know their love for them immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readers note: a lot of shit goes down in this chapter, but trigger warnings i didn't include in the tags apply: mentions of physical and verbal abuse, alcoholism and mentions of alcoholism, and clear homophobia and abusive use of slurs are used.  
> the chapter also starts off a little........ adult-y, but real sexy times does not occur for another few chapters

  John's tongue slowly drags a path down the long column of skin stretching down Sherlock's neck, a gentle yet audible gasp escaping from the man's lips.

  "John," he breathes. " _Oh_ John John Johnnnn!"

  Slowly, John's lips trail back up, making sure to coat his neck in kisses as he does. Their hips grind together, starting a slow rhythm between the two as Sherlock's hands push into and explore underneath John's shirt. Strong, powerful hands hold him down from letting him go, and Sherlock's tongue immediately teases into John's mouth the moment it can try to get a taste. There's a sudden sense of urgency, like the blaring fire alarm without the smell of smoke. Something is happening, and that something is going to happen now.

  There's a rough shove into the mattress, quiet moans and tough hands grabbing at clothing. But... Sherlock's shirt won't come off. nor his pants. No matter how hard John pulls and pulls, and the eager nodding of Sherlock's head, the pants won't come off, almost as if they're glued. John can't help his whines and breathless pleas for them to just come off, but Sherlock's skin tugs up with them. And now Sherlock's voice is shifting and changing as he whispers back. It's indistinguishable at first, but now it's becoming more clear. Mary's voice comes through his lips.

  "Could never get anything right," the voice scolds, Sherlock's face disapproving.  _What?_ Now it's masculine again, but not quite the same. This time it slowly melts into it as John's surrounding drown out.

  "This isn't right," Sholto's voice warns as Sherlock's eyes pierce into John's. Is Sherlock's face warping? "This isn't right. We could get in trouble. Two men like this--they could separate us... or worse..." The voice is detached from the body pressed against him, but his icy eyes don't even blink. "What would everyone else think?" The voice drops further, John's world spinning.

  "Faggot," his father's voice echos, consuming his senses. "That's what you can't be, hear me? Your sister is a goddamn disappointment, being a dyke all'a'sudden. You're never gonna be a fuckin' faggot, you hear? Fuckin' faggots get their 'eads bashed in by the good people--people like us, son."

  A voice comes back, rippling through John's mind as he gasps for air. It's unclear at first, barely bubbling to the surface until he jolts awake.

  Sherlock is cuddled close beside him, trying his hardest to ground him. "John?" His voice rumbles comfortingly, the nightstand light already flicked on.

  Not a word comes out, only a sudden sob from John's lips spews out while his chest constricts. Oh god, is he still asleep? Could he still be dreaming? Is the hand on his back real, or is it going to melt away into his father's belt?

  "John? John. It's Sherlock. Listen to me."

  His head shakes.

  "Breathe in."

  Inhale. Pause.

  "Breathe out."

  Exhale.

  "Can you do it again?

  Inhale. Pause. Exhale.

  "That's good," Sherlock's voice whispers to him even quieter. "Very good. Keep doing that. Will you open your eyes?"

  He shakes his head.

  "That's okay. Do you remember if you took your medication?"

  A hesitant head shake in response.

  "That's okay. It was a mistake, but you are awake now, John." The voice grounds him a little, letting him slowly open his eyes to look at the world around him. Sherlock is sitting up beside him, his side almost entirely touching him with his hand on John's back. The digital clock reads 4:27, and the soft patter against their window suggests the storm he fell asleep to hasn't fully past. The unchanging world is the only thing that truly forces him back into reality.

  A couple seconds of careful back rubs and strung out silence is broken by Sherlock's throat clearing. "You started turning in you sleep. You seemed upset, then you made noise, followed by difficulty breathing..."

  "It's okay, it was just a bad dream."

  Sherlock's head nods in response. "About?" quietly slips through his lips.

  John's lips part slightly, sucking in a breath as he contemplates a reaction. He can't tell him the truth. What could he say without lying? "Some things I can't really... let go of. Like Mary."

  Sherlock's heart sinks. Of course. "Understandable."

  A wave of discomfort hits them. They haven't spoken about Mary in quite some time; her name became almost a plague to their conversation. Each time the word is uttered, their exchange is killed with an unfair swiftness to it. Or maybe the true killer is their own cowardice and inability to work over their anxieties to force out a question to change how they feel. The word is an unfair card to play at a poker game, for neither of them will win as fast as they wish and the game is put on hold.

  Eventually, John's voice snaps them both back. "I don't know if I can sleep right tonight."

  "I can make you tea?"

  He gives him a little nod in return, his body very carefully shifting to set his head on Sherlock's shoulder and causing the other man to freeze at the affectionate touch and sending him into a whirlwind of thoughts, yet all generally centering around 'why'?

  Once in Sherlock's mind palace, it's easy to access his file on John. It is so easy, in fact, that there is a room labeled 'John' with everything Sherlock has ever saved about John. His knowledge extends from which vegetables John prefers in an afternoon salad to a rough estimate of what percentage John has memorized of old Bond films (73%). Yet, which all of his years of gathering and organizing John's information, not once has Sherlock set a file aside for John's ways of showing affection through contact. Possibly because he's never witnessed John being warm towards his girlfriends beyond digital contact through emails or texts, but then again, it caused him to make the conclusion that John is not a physically affectionate person. Which now begs the question--why? If he could react in the way he wishes to, he would check John's temperature and pulse for possible abnormalities making him act in such a way, yet it seems more than improper in a situation like this, where John had just mentioned his deceased wife. Or, it is entirely possible that the thought of one who is assumed to give him comfort cannot now, especially a time of need, is making him seek a new person to give it. Yet, if that  _is_ the case, it would still bring a larger question; why would he not seek a similar sexual and romantic comfort to the one of his past wife?

  With the latter in mind, and ignoring his question, Sherlock sets a hesitant hand on John's back and drags it up to his head and lets his fingertips weave through his mushed hair. After seconds of John not making a move to reject him, he quietly exhales and relaxes. "Will you tell me about the dream as I fix us both something?" he risks. Even if it's a discussion about Mary, it will still be a serious discussion, and that has to count as something.

  But John just nods again in a response, no words even escaping as he stands and casts his gaze away, going into the kitchen and letting Sherlock follow. Nobody really speaks for a few minutes; the only sounds that come from the kitchen are the clinks of mugs and the switch to the kettle. The unfair concert of hidden fears of what to say and how to say it, as if they misstep and mutter the wrong words, the other will know their love for them immediately.

  A soft thump of John's mug resting on the table in front of him jerks him enough to push his thoughts out. "It was a weird dream," he says quietly, picking the drink up again and raising it to his lips, blowing slowly before sipping. "It was part of a re-occurring dream--not a bad one, just re-occurring, at the beginning. Then it sort of starting... going bad. It was all things people had said to me in the past. One of Mary's offhanded comments were in there about how I "Can't do things right"," he mocks her voice, his tone raising before dropping back, "and what my father said to me after Harry left..." He trails off, looking off out the window, watching the rain trickle down in streaks against the glass as the sound of his father's voice rings in his ears. Occasionally he'll hear it, but usually whenever he really starts to think about Sherlock will it return, hitting him like the smack of his palm against his head, or the weight of a fist hitting his face after one too many beers way too early in the afternoon.

  The drawn out silence breaks with a soft touch of Sherlock's fingertips against his knuckle and the man's mug resting against the tabletop. "I wasn't aware of how Mary treated you."

  John sorts sort of rudely, the his eyes starting to glaze as tears form. "Oh yeah. All the time. It was a comment here or there about how I wasn't doing something right, that I shouldn't be allowed to do certain things or that I was a waste. Rarely ever heard positives from her."

  "I see."

  John pushes out a sort of laugh, sounding more like he's on the verge of crying. "Guess she was right at times. Could never really figure shit out like the two of you. Just sort of existed there. Hell, thought she'd leave me for you for a while. That was until you got that text from... you know...  _her_."

  Sherlock snorts, a little too tired to keep it in, which causes John to look at him, frowning. "That the hell's so funny?"

  Sherlock bursts into laughter, shaking a little and letting his head drop a little forward. He sighs after nearly a minute of laughing, wiping his eyes. "Honestly, John, I know you're not the most observant, but I was sure you'd figure it out eventually."

  "What? Figure out what?" It almost feels like somethings bubbling inside John, like a kettle of jealousy. "God, you two  _are_ something aren't you? Married? Two kids you see on holiday?

  Sherlock laughs harder, not containing it any more. "God, John, I'm gay! A homosexual! I like men!"

  John stops, becoming unresponsive for a solid few seconds as Sherlock keeps laughing. He even stops breathing, only blinking a few times. "You... like men?" he manages out, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

  Sherlock calms down enough. "Of course I am. You never truly realized? I read women's gossip magazines, I use a quite excessive amount of hair product, and I even stated on that night we went to Angelo's that I don't like women and that I don't have a boyfriend. And I've stated  _many_ times since then that I definitely do not like women. I'm quite amazed that you've known me this long and haven't been aware."

  The soldier stares at him, trying to work it through in his head. "So... so you're... You've never..."

  "I'm gay. I've never been remotely interested in women in a romantic or physical way. While, granted, Irene is interesting intellectually, her body repulses me. I'd be much more delighted playing a good game of poker with her rather than..." He cringes a little at the thought, making a face. "You get the idea."

  "No, no I don't..?"

  He sighs, smiling a little. "I am gay. I like men sexually and romantically. I enjoy the bodies of men. I want to kiss men. Men attract me."

  John simply keeps staring. What does he say now? What would make sense. "Alright. Fine. If we're just... stating things, I'm bisexual."

  Sherlock nods. "I'm aware."

  "What?!"

  "Shhhh," Sherlock whispers, still smiling and chuckling softly. "For Christ's sake, John, you'll wake Rosie."

  John blinks, frowning. "I... I don't understand. How could you..."

  "I saw how you approached your ex commander Sholto at your wedding. It seemed quite clear that you and him had a past relationship that exceeded platonic. Therefore, you must be bisexual, to say the least." That, and he hit on him during their first dinner, but that would change the conversation to their relationship, and it is too early in the morning for multiple serious conversations.

  "So... you've just known?"

  "Yes."

  John watches him, crossing his arms. "Oh."

  Sherlock smiles a little. "John," he says softly.

  "Yes?" he replies, sounding slightly peeved.

  "It's all fine, by the way," he says softly, his hand resting in the middle of the table.

  John's face softens, relaxing as his lips curve upwards slightly. His eyes glance down before closing. "I think I'm ready to head back to bed."

  Sherlock gives him a little nod and stands, cleaning up their mugs and setting them in the drying rack before waiting for John to stand then leading him back to bed. They each get in on their opposite sides, Sherlock shutting off his lamp. It takes a few seconds, each unsure if they other is comfortable going back to the closeness, but every few seconds they scoot a little closer until their knees brush up against each others and hands rest together. Maybe it isn't the night where they can really say something, but that day will come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really shocked i got this pumped out in a few days like damn @ self ya really did this wow
> 
> anyways i'm like aaaAAAAAA bc i got a lot more written than i usually do and i feel kinda proud of this chapter so like......... enjoy, kiddos, and i hope i'll post more soon xoxoxox


	6. Experimentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mundane weekday like this is perfectly normal and comfortable. As usual, Mrs. Hudson returns with Rosie for dinner, Sherlock gives her a bath afterwards before John reads her to sleep. Their life falls into this pattern of sedentary life mixed with the thrill of the cases, which would be a perfect life if it were not for what they do when they're alone--nothing. They talk about the news or a case, fingertips sneaking onto the other's bare arm or one of their heads comfortably resting on the other's shoulder in an intimate touch valued by both of them, but hiding something more that they both crave. So, in response, Sherlock developed an experiment, as Sherlock does.

 "Move your hand," a cautious voice whispers, watching the other man shakily.

  "Okay okay. Just... closer, alright?"

  "Definitely. Tilt your head a little for me, okay?"

  "Mmhm."

  "Good, good. Now do it."

  The crib just makes it through the doorway, and both men sigh in relief. "Thank god," John mumbles, dropping it when they're both ready. "Tell me, why didn't we put it apart up here?"

  Sherlock shifts his weight from heel to heel. "Well... ah... frankly, I'm not so sure." His face cracks into a smile as he lets out a throaty chuckle. "Quite an idiotic move on my part."

  "You're getting slow," John quips back, setting the mattress into the frame. "Who knows,  _I_ might solve the crimes soon."

  "You practically already do."

  John smiles to himself, looking at the ground as Sherlock finishes setting up the room. "Suppose I do," he teases back, his eyes darting around. Rosie is getting awfully big and adventurous, and it was time to really baby-proof and update the room so she could roam if she would feel the need. Her old crib sits in the hall in pieces while her new crib is pushed in the corner, accumulating the space where his bed previously sat. It no longer looks like the room he sat in for so long; it's happier now, no longer holding the long standing grief it did when he lived there in the years prior. The room doesn't hold the questions of whether or not he's ever going to be happy with somebody he cares about, as it now holds the life of one of the most important people in John's world.

  His train of thought abruptly gets interrupted by Sherlock's palm pressing against the bottom curve of his back. "I think we're just about done," his voice whispers soothingly, a grin across the detective's face. "We have to finish the Stentson case before dinner, or else we might have another victim."

 A soft chuckle comes from John's throat as he nods, stepping away from his touch so his hand can hold Sherlock's, their fingers intertwining and palms pressing together as they walk down the stairs together and into the living room, where they let go but remain close by as they sink back into the set up from earlier. John sits on the couch, scanning over the images from the case as Sherlock works on his map of the work, trying to puzzle together the clues. It doesn't take long before they put it together and phone Lestrade, telling him who the killer is and where to find him.

  A mundane weekday like this is perfectly normal and comfortable. As usual, Mrs. Hudson returns with Rosie for dinner, Sherlock gives her a bath afterwards before John reads her to sleep. Their life falls into this pattern of sedentary life mixed with the thrill of the cases, which would be a perfect life if it were not for what they do when they're alone--nothing. They talk about the news or a case, fingertips sneaking onto the other's bare arm or one of their heads comfortably resting on the other's shoulder in an intimate touch valued by both of them, but hiding something more that they both crave. So, in response, Sherlock developed an experiment, as Sherlock does.

  With his notebook on the table accompanied by a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a timer, Sherlock sits pin-straight up at the edge of the couch as John returns from Rosie's bedroom. Light candles only light the room, and there's an overwhelming smell of... fresh linen? Lavender? A little bit of sandalwood? "God, did you raid a Yankee Candle?" he jokes before stepping fully into the living room and stopping. Oh. "What's going on...?"

  "There's data I have yet to collect on you to make a proper conclusion on whether or not my hypothesis is incorrect or well supported, and it's quite crucial information. Will you take a seat?"

  "That doesn't answer my question, Sherlock."

  "I... do not understand."

  John sighs. "Why does this look like a bad romantic comedy?"

  Sherlock clears his throat, adjusting his seating. "Well... I gathered information on how one proposes their romantic expectations onto a possible significant other in a way that makes it completely unquestionable that it is a romantic interest, rather than a casual setting. Candles and red wine are considered romantic, I suppose. At least, that's what I gained from a total of 18 hours of frankly boring heterosexual romantic comedies that seem to be the epitome of endearing romance and human intimacy in the form that is nearly unachievable for the general public. While improbable that I could replicate those conditions, I want to make do with what I can do while attempting to push our intimacy in a way that neither of us are familiar with in a situation with one another. From what I've found in data I've been collecting, you seem to have a what would be typical in a human's reaction to interest in a mate in physical ways such as heart rate and 'flirting', as most sources refer to it as. Unless, of course, my observations have been embarrassingly off and I have made a complete and utter fool of myself."

  John stares at him incredulously, blinking and shifting his weight. "What are you saying exactly, Sherlock?"

  "I wish for you to kiss me."

  A smile cracks on John's face. "You could have just said that earlier," he whispers, taking the seat beside him on the couch.

  There's a moments pause as Sherlock tries to formulate a proper response. "Could I?"

  John snorts, smiling wider. "God yes," he breathes, hands raising to very slowly rest against his cheeks. "And I've been an idiot. We've both been idiots."

  "John..." Sherlock breathes, his eyes wide and hands trembling with uncertainty.

  "Shhh," the smaller man breathes in return, shaking his head a little. "Don't... don't over complicate this right now, okay? We'll work everything else out later, and we'll talk like normal fucking adults, but right now, I just want to kiss you. May I?"

  Softly, Sherlock sniffles as his head nods up and down, tears forming in his eyes. "Kiss me, please."

  John's grin spreads as he surges forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's with such might that it could bruise him, his hands sliding into Sherlock's hair as the other man responds in the like, kissing him back with the unresolved desire built up over the years. Before long, their bodies press together and hands travel without shame, grabbing, touching, pulling, squeezing anything they can feel. Sherlock's hands find their way up under John's shirt as John's hands cling to Sherlock's shoulders for stability, fearing he might fly away if he lets go. Their bodies shift together as John lays back, Sherlock's body immediately covering his as they break for a moments breath, diving back in in a frenzy, but it doesn't take long before Sherlock's tears overcome him and he breaks apart, face diving into John's chest. His sobs release against him, waves of relief hitting him as he tries to expel all his years of pining and selfish wanting and wishing and praying that one day, John would hold him like this, and even the man he love's touch can't even ground him. It still hurts, as if it would never stop hurting. Even as he calms, his eyes still flood as John whispers to him.

  "We will be okay," he assures, his hands slowly moving up and down Sherlock's long back, memorizing all the sensory feelings of Sherlock against him. "God, it hurts. I know. I know it hurts, but it will be okay. God, Sherlock, I fucked up. I really,  _really_ fucked up, and I can never take all my mistakes back, but they're fixable. They're fixable mistakes that you and I can put back together. I've got you, Sherlock, and I'm never letting go. Do you hear me? I'll never make those mistakes again, and we will be okay."

  "I love you," he murmurs back. "I love you, John Watson."

  John's hand gently tips Sherlock's face up, his thumbs brushing away his tears. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes," he assures softly, leaning down to press a feather soft kiss to his lips, lingering for a minute before Sherlock pulls back slightly to press his lips to John's forehead and causing John's face to spread into a grin.

  Their hands find each other, palms pressing together as their fingers lace. "I think I've had enough change for one night," Sherlock breathes, his face mirroring John's smile. "May we retire for the evening?"

  John gives him a little nod in return, waiting for him to move off of him and stand before he follows, blowing out the candles and putting the wine in the kitchen, following Sherlock to the bedroom, where he finds the man sitting at the edge of their bed. Wordlessly, he joins him, chewing on his bottom lip as his hands set themselves at Sherlock's waist. Once he nods, John starts unbuttoning them, helping him out of his trousers before moving his hands up and getting an abrupt head shake from Sherlock, his breath sucking back into him.

  "No, John, I..." He pauses, fear overwhelming him again as he thinks of the immediate rejection that could soon follow, but John's gentle hand against his cheek lets him breathe again. "There's... something I never told you. Something I've hid from you in fears you would be angry or disturbed." His hand raises up, fingertips glazing over John's knuckles before turning his head a little to kiss the pad of his thumb. "It's ugly. It's... horrific. It's something I'm afraid will drive you away." His eyes close, fluttering back open when John's lips press against his for only a moment, breaking away only to remain close.

  "There's nothing about you that could drive me away at this point."

  Sherlock sighs, looking down and giving him the smallest nod he can manage, watching John's hands slowly unbutton his top, pushing the fabric off his body. The scars peak out around his shoulders and sides, leading to reveal how damaged the skin on his back had truly become. Slowly, Sherlock's body is shifted so John can look, his brows knitting and breath catching.

  "When... or how..."

  The story starts falling from Sherlock's mouth in rapid word-fire, explaining where he'd been tortured and kept for months on end, being starved, being whipped, being burnt and slashed at, all the while John stares at him in awe. Moments of silence pass, John's sniffling being the only sound in the room as Sherlock is pulled into John's embrace, being held against his chest as he clings to him tightly.

  Nothing is said, for what could be said after that? Only a couple gentle kisses followed by hands returning back to each other's bodies. Sherlock slowly finishes undressing John, leaving them both in their boxers. Curious hands start to brush against the other's skin, exploring each nook and cranny as their mouths meet again. Slowly but surely, they shift back and lay facing each other, still exchanging gentle kisses and skin tugging and pulling, holding and caressing each other until they're both too tired to keep at it. Their boxers remain on, both of them a little too shy to let themselves be exposed so early, but it will come soon. Now, though, in the moment, all that truly matters is their quiet exchange of "I love you"s to each other before they doze off in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaa okie finally i got them to kiss like 6 chapters in lmao glad i tagged it as slow burn heh
> 
> once again, life is nutzo for me and i just got a viral infection so i've been fucked up for the past couple days
> 
> hopefully another update isn't too far away xoxox  
> -anï
> 
> \--
> 
> hey kiddos; if you're reading this, i uh, culled off this fic. marked it as finished. i'm not gonna update it past here because i left the fandom not too long after writing this. i hate to say goodbyes, but well... goodbye to the johnlock fandom. it was good while it lasted.


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